Late night ferry arrival into Plymouth last night was further delayed by immigration control which whilst not quite Operation Stack, still kept us waiting until after well after ten o clock.
At the time, the novelty of a fly fishing lodge in deepest north Devon seemed like a great idea as a stopover for the last night of our holiday. After the empty French roads, 45 miles also seemed like a short hop. Reality was that after what seemed like an eternity of narrow country B-roads, no Satnav and reliance on iPhone Googlemaps with diminishing 3G, it seemed like we were going to have to spend the night in the car on a foggy Dartmoor with a full moon and the beast on the loose.
We finally made it though by midnight to our so-called "luxury" Fox & Hounds Country House Hotel in Chulmleigh. Unhappily, after all that stress and followed by the excitement of arrival, we were met by a very dour looking (and positively un-chumly) receptionist. With that, my dreams of a late Fishermans bar still open to residents evaporated.
Morning revealed even more corporate unfriendliness, which after the so-polite Breton hoteliers was a rude awakening to us both and a welcome home reality check.
Daylight revealed we had entered the hotel from hell last night under a triumphant arch of be-ribboned mini diggers that was to welcome the wedding party of the day. It also revealed to me that this was not a true fishing lodge anymore but a theme park. I couldn't stomach the 5 miles fly fishing on offer on the River Taw after that it was that bad.
Holiday over me thinks.